Paved With Good Intentions
by greenk
Summary: There are two kinds of folks who sit around thinking about how to kill people: psychopaths and mystery writers. He threw away his chance to be the kind that pays better. Very AU.
1. Chapter 1

Do you ever come up with a good idea, but at the same time, you feel like you're not capable of doing it justice? For a while, I considered passing this concept on to a better, more experienced writer before finally sucking it up and trying to execute it myself. This is my first true AU, and it's been a bit of a struggle, but I think I'm happy with what I have so far. A big thank you to my friend Suzanne (suz24) for beta-ing.

My goal is to update at least once a week, and I have enough material to last a while at that rate. I'm a little worried about how this plot might be received, but let me know what you guys think.

**Summary: **There are two kinds of folks who sit around thinking about how to kill people: psychopaths and mystery writers. He threw away his chance to be the kind that pays better. Very AU.

**Rated: **T for language and violence

**Disclaimer: **Definitely not.

* * *

So much of life is spent waiting. Waiting for the coffee to brew, the bus to come, the storm to pass.

Most of his time is spent waiting on others, observing them, like fleas under a microscope. On this particular night, it's taking longer than usual. He looks at his watch, and it's 1:30 am on a Friday night, just about closing time for Reilly's Pub. So what in the world is the hold up?

Patience. Patience is key. _You get antsy, you get exposed_. Besides, it's not as if he has anywhere else to be. All this waiting and plotting…sometimes it's half the fun.

There's movement at the entrance. That's him; it has to be. His target walks out of the tavern, clearly inebriated and dragging his feet. Middle-aged, wide frame, fairly tall.

He creeps closer, shrouded by the darkness of the alleyway to make sure. He always makes sure. This isn't a crime of passion. It's deliberate, premeditated, but never unjust. Those proven innocent live, and the guilty? Well, they sealed their fates long ago.

Here, in this alleyway, he is the law. Judge, jury, executioner.

The man stumbles, and in a flail of limbs, he crashes to the ground on his hands and knees, vomit spewing from his mouth. Disgusting, pathetic. To keep him here on Earth any longer would be a disservice to humanity.

He continues to retch onto the pavement long after all substance is gone, gagging on his spit. No. No one will miss him, of this he is sure.

It's time to make his presence known. "Marshall Greene."

The man in question coughs once more and then looks up with bloodshot eyes. "Do I...do I know you?"

"No, you don't know me," he answers honestly. "But I know you."

"Y-you do?"

"Yes, I know all about you." He helps the drunkard up onto his feet. "You're a people person, always have been. A real talker, but not much of an intellect. Lived in Queens, married for seven years. You could never hold down a job, and that didn't make the wife very happy, did it?"

Marshall's face blanches. "Man, I don't know what yer talking 'bout, but-"

"I think you do know what I'm talking about. You know very well, and so I just have one question for you," he pauses for effect. "Why did you kill Darla Greene?"

"Get offa me," Marshall groans as hands grip his coat. "Get the fuck off me!"

"Listen to me." he growls. "Why did you kill your wife?"

"I didn't!" He begins to panic in his grasp, almost falling over in his struggle to get away. "Not guilty, man! The court ruled not guilty."

"You think I care what the court has to say, you piece of filth?" He keeps his left hand on the man's collar and reaches down with his right for the rope. "Tonight, you answer to me. Why did you kill your wife?"

"She was a bitch!" blurted Marshall, the alcohol rendering his filter useless. "All she did was complain about the rent and the money and my job. She was, she was asking for it. I couldn't take it anymore!"

Confessions didn't happen so easily every time. He had to hand it to whiskey, as good as any truth serum. "That's all I needed to know."

The man looks down at the rope and then back at his face, realization dawning. "Holy shit. It's you."

"So you have heard of me. Then you know what happens next." He lunges, backing Marshall Greene into the brick wall, anchoring him there with his body, and then using both hands to wrap the line around his neck.

"Oh, God," Marshall chokes, tears welling up in his eyes. "No, please. Please don't do this, man. I'll do anything. I don't want to die."

It's futile to beg now. The rope tightens, slowly cutting off the airway, leaving the man to squeal and claw for his life.

"You should have thought about that before you murdered your wife." A life for a life. It's only fair. Killers get what they deserve. He likes to think he's the exception to that rule. It's either that or admit that he owes the world his life fifteen times over.

"Mercy," the man cries out with his final breath. "_Mercy_."

Something snaps, the squirming stops, and the dead weight of Marshall's body signals that it's done. He sets the man down and bends over to press the lids of his lifeless eyes closed.

Richard Castle doesn't show mercy.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Expect an update on or before next Thursday. I'd be grateful to hear your thoughts, so leave feedback down below, or shoot me a message on tumblr.

On an unrelated note, the Castle season 6 premiere is less than two weeks away! How excited are you?


	2. Chapter 2

Well, many of you asked for an update sooner than Thursday, so I bring this to you...one day early. It's a weak effort, but I honestly cannot believe it's already been six days since I published this story. Life has been busy, so thank you for all of the reviews and encouragement. And once again, thanks to suz24 for beta-ing.

If it's any consolation, this chapter is much longer than the last. To clarify, this story will take place from the end of season 2 to mid-season 3, with obvious changes of course. This story is AU, but various timeline events in both universes remain the same.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"All right, boys. Gather 'round. We got a fresh one."

Like dutiful children, Esposito and Ryan crowd her desk, pressing closer to see the details on her notepad.

"You two ride down to the scene together, and I'll meet you there. I have something to take care of first."

"Something to take care of, Beckett? Like your boyfriend maybe?" Esposito leers at her while Ryan snickers into his sleeve, a pitiful attempt at a fake cough.

"Oh, ha ha. Very funny. Try not to distract Lanie from her job by pining too loudly, will you?"

His face sours, and he leaves without another word, Ryan trailing behind. Score one for Beckett.

She takes the stairs two at a time down from homicide. Gonna have to make this quick unless she want more flak from her team. She's standing outside the bullpen in a few short moments, looking for him when she feels two warm hands latch onto her waist from behind, dragging her into a deserted hallway.

"Good morning, Detective. So, you have a decision for me?" he whispers into her ear.

She squirms uncomfortably out of his grasp. "Hey, you. PDA in the precinct is strictly off-limits, remember?"

"Oh, really?" His grin is equal parts attractive and irritating. "Because I seem to remember a sultry kiss a few floors up from here not too long ago. And I don't think you were complaining at the time. Actually, I think you might have started it." He reaches for her again.

She takes a step back. "No," the warning tone of her voice is evident.

"But, Beckett."

"Tom."

End of discussion. His eyes cloud over in disappointment, maybe a bit of annoyance too. In fact, he seems rather miffed. Whatever. Her job, her part in the relationship, her rules. He doesn't have to like it, just has to respect her enough to listen when told.

"So? What did you come down here for?"

She sighs, fingers pressed to her temple. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just…it's hard enough being a woman around here without adding fooling around at the workplace into the mix. Let alone with a co-worker."

"It's okay, Kate. Really, I get it." He musters a grin, some of that familiar, teasing light back in his eyes, reminding her of how they got here in the first place. Her heart swells with it. "What can I say? You are my weakness. You and that smoking body of yours."

"Yeah?" She bites her lip on a shy smile.

"Totally."

Oh, what the hell. She's always been impulsive. Why not just give this thing a shot? "You know, I was actually going to stop down here to ask for more time. But I think I already have my answer."

"And?"

"And…my answer is yes."

He does a little hop of victory, eyes gleaming, and leans close once more, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. "Awesome. You won't regret it, babe," he calls, walking backwards into the bullpen. "I promise!"

Ugh, 'babe' is officially sooo forbidden in the precinct too. She'll have to tell him that later, over dinner. For now…yeah, maybe making a decision like that on a whim wasn't her greatest idea ever, but what's the worst that could happen? It's just the weekend after all.

* * *

"The whole Memorial Day weekend away together? With Tom Demming? And you, Little Miss Commitaphobe, actually agreed to it?"

"Lanie," the detective hisses over her clipboard. "Keep it down. This is a crime scene."

"Don't you tell me to keep it down. This, Kate Beckett, is a big frickin' deal. I thought you told me yesterday that you were planning on saying no."

"Well, I was. But I kind of kicked him to the curb this morning, and he was pretty understanding about it. I decided that I might as well just give this thing a shot." A wave of self-doubt crashes over. "Why? Do you think I made the wrong decision?"

"It's just not like you, Kate. First come vacation getaways, then come marriage proposals…"

"Oh, shit." Once she is in full-fledged panic mode, there is no getting her out of it. "Lanie, this is a big commitment. What have I done?"

Her last serious relationship was with Will, but it was years ago. And look how that turned out. Is she ready for such a big step?

"Relax, girl. I didn't say it was the wrong decision." The sassy ME rolls her eyes. "In fact, I'm happy for you. It's about time you just let loose. Enjoy yourself."

"So, what, that little stunt you just pulled was all for show? Jesus, you are the queen of mixed messages." Kate lets out an embarrassing pant of relief. "How the hell did you even know why I was late?"

Lanie smirks, glancing over at the Latino detective who, at the moment, is a little more than preoccupied with a hysterical witness. "A little birdy must have told me."

She scoffs, "Right. And was this little bird named Javier Esposito, by chance?"

"Mmm, maybe. He might have said, and I quote, 'Beckett? Oh, yeah, she's busy with the jackass.' And, you know, I just had to assume that he was talking about a certain robbery detective boyfriend."

"Seriously?"

"Well, Kate, you have to admit. He is a bit of a jackass."

She sticks her tongue out at her so-called-friend, and the medical examiner just laughs. Oh yeah? Well, screw you, Lanie. "Let's just get back to the _murder_, shall we?"

And to her credit, the woman does just that. "Our victim is a white male, early forties."

"Cause of death?"

"Strangulation. But I'd have to say he was dead before he got strung up here."

Beckett examines the body, dangling by a rope from a shop's awning. "What makes you say that?"

"His neck. It's not broken. No hangman's fracture. Spinal cord isn't twisted. And the rope is too tight for him to have simply tried to hang himself and died of suffocation. Not to mention that his eyes are closed. I can't be sure until I get him back to the lab, but I'd bet you my degree, Detective. This is no suicide."

"Not suicide," Kate swallows, watching the sun in the alley glint off the victim's skin as he swings in the early morning breeze. Eerie. "Got it."

"Beckett!" Ryan signals her over with a waving hand. He's waist deep in a dumpster, beaming from ear to ear, bless him. "Got an ID for you! Marshall Greene, age forty-two. Lives about ten blocks away from here."

"Good work. Let's wrap this up and get a canvass going on the neighborhood, see if anyone heard or saw the struggle. I'll go assist Espo with his friend. But, uh, get cleaned up first."

Her co-worker brushes a dangling noodle from his shoulder in mild disgust and lifts a leg out of the rubbish to hoist himself from the trash container. "On it, boss."

As soon as she approaches, she knows this is going to be rough. Esposito gives the woman sitting on a wooden crate an uneasy pat as she heaves.

"This is Jess Pearson. She works as a waitress at Reilly's Pub, just a few doors down. Our victim stopped by for one too many rounds last night. Left around 1:30. She's the one who found the body and made the 911 call this morning."

"I don't know how I missed him. I don't know how I could have missed him!" the curly-haired waitress bawls into her apron.

Kate turns to ask Esposito what else he's learned so far from the incapacitated witness, but she's already facing the back of his retreating form, the wave of his hand signaling his retreat. Great, just great. Looks like she's on her own.

"Ms. Pearson, my name is Detective Kate Beckett. If you could collect yourself for a few minutes, I'm going to have to ask you a few preliminary questions to establish a timeline. It would really be helpful to the investigation. The sooner we wrap up here, the sooner you get to go home."

The woman in question sniffles a few more times before focusing her bleary eyes on the detective's face. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. I know." She takes a deep breath. "I pulled into the garage at about seven-thirty. The bar doesn't open up until eight, but I left my purse in the back. And my wallet. Oh!" The woman gives her a guilty look. "I drove without my license."

Oh, brother. Beckett musters up a sympathetic smile, "It's okay, Ms. Pearson. I'm a homicide detective, not a traffic cop."

"Oh, good. Thank you. So, where was I? Ah, yes. I'd just pulled up. I wanted to make sure my things didn't get stolen when the other wait staff members started coming in."

"You have keys to the pub?"

"Yes. Jimmy, err, Mr. Henderson gave me a set when I started working here. He's the manager, my boss."

Aha. "So you two are seeing each other?"

Jess Pearson flushes, begins to shake her head ardently. "No, no! We're not seeing each other. Or, well, not anymore. He just trusts me. We had a fling, broke it off a while back. They say it's never good to date a coworker, you know?"

She knows all too well what they say. For the last month, she's been trying to prove them all wrong. "Right. So, Mr. Henderson. Is he the person who would have locked up last night?"

"No, I locked up. I should have seen that man hanging there, but it was so dark." She shudders. "Usually, Jim's first in, last out. But he had some business to attend to, or maybe a family thing? He left early last night."

"Will he be in this morning?"

"Nope. Told me he'd be out of town for a day or two and then left."

No way. This is just too easy. "Out of town? Do you have a number that we'd be able to reach him by?"

"Yeah, yeah." The waitress reaches into her the V-neck of her blouse and pulls out her phone, scrolling through the numbers until she reaches the right one. She rattles off the digits. "But you know," Jess says incredulously, "It's the funniest thing. I tried to call him this morning to let him know I was going to use my set of keys—just as a courtesy—and he didn't answer. Jim always answers when I call."

Case closed. "That is strange. Now, what time did he leave last night?"

"I don't know. Around eight o'clock? Maybe it was more like eight-thirty. He just packed up his satchel and told me to lock up when I finished closing the place at three." Then, the woman's eyes widen in fear. "Why? You don't think Jimmy could have done this, do you?"

The detective shakes her head. "It's impossible to come to any conclusions before we investigate all avenues. We'll have to ask him about his whereabouts during the murder and about his employees. Just some conventional things."

"Jim Henderson is a compulsive drinker, a lousy lover, and a cheat at cards. He's a lot of things, but a murderer isn't one of them."

Kate Beckett purses her lips. "Never said he was. I just have one more question. Did Mr. Greene come into Reilly's often?"

Her eyes still shimmer with distrust, but Jess Pearson answers, "No, he's not a regular. Not sure if I'd ever seen him here before. I'm usually pretty good at remembering faces."

She stands and extends her hand to the woman for a wary shake. "Thank you so much for your time, Ms. Pearson. Now, go home and get some rest."

"All signs point to Jim Henderson." Beckett grabs an Expo marker, writes his name down on one of homicide's whiteboards, and then circles it over and over in the thick, red ink. "Looks like we're going to have to pay his house a little visit. Ryan, you're with-"

"Hold up, Beckett," Javier Esposito bellows from his desk, phone held in the air, "Just got a call from downstairs. They got a guy at the desk looking for a Detective Beckett. Name's Henderson."

She feels her eyebrows rise. Their number one suspect just shows up on the 12th's doorstep? But she was so certain...

"Beckett? What should I tell 'em?"

She nods, taking a quick breath to clear her head. "Send him up."

* * *

"Well, that was a bust," Beckett sighs, exiting Interrogation as Esposito simultaneously closes the door to the observation room. "Ryan?"

"Over here, Boss. Just called St. Francis Medical Center."

"And?"

"The secretary confirmed it. Henderson was visiting with his grandmother from eleven-thirty 'til long after our vic's approximate time of death."

"They let him stay after visiting hours?" Esposito asks, brow furrowed.

"Well, yeah," Ryan answers, "They thought she wouldn't make it until morning. The family was saying their last goodbyes."

Beckett groans in frustration, hand covering her eyes. "So he was over an hour away in Jersey while the crime was being committed. That means we're back to square one. Espo, what've you got so far on our guy?"

"He rents out a one-bedroom apartment in a bad neighborhood for starters. Probably rubs shoulders with a bunch of convicted criminals."

"And they followed him all the way out to Reilly's? Keep going."

He flips through his stack of print-outs. "He's currently unemployed. Used to be a city tour guide."

"That's interesting."

"Three years ago, he was living in Queens, married to a woman named Darla Greene."

"Divorced?" Ryan pipes.

"Nah, bro. Suicide. Although it says here…" he carries off, reading the document with a look of concern.

"It says what, Esposito?" Beckett deadpans. They need a lead, any kind of lead, and she's this close to getting impatient.

"Her suicide was investigated. There was a note found on the scene, but a graphologist analyzed it. It didn't match Darla Greene's handwriting. And get this. She hanged herself."

"Coincidence?" his partner suggests warily.

Kate frowns and shakes her head. "No such thing. Let me guess, the number one suspect was her husband." So a murder based on revenge? Maybe a grieving relative learned the truth.

"Hey, how much do you know about the Copycat Vigilante, Beckett?"

The Copycat Vigilante. Now, that's a name she hasn't heard in a while. _What are you playing at, Javi?_ "Enough to assume that this wasn't him. He hasn't made a killing in over three years."

"Doesn't mean he couldn't come back." Esposito takes an eager step closer. "It happens."

"The Copy-who?"

The two detectives turn their heads in tandem toward Kevin Ryan, sitting at his desk with a clueless expression. He's a couple years younger than she is, yeah, but this thing was headline news for years.

She sighs, "Richard Castle, otherwise known as the Copycat Vigilante. He slaughtered investigated murder suspects in the same way that their victims were killed."

"He started at it after his father supposedly axed his mom. Dude, this was a high-profile case. His old man was CIA, mom was an actress."

She imagines a light bulb blinking on over his head as Ryan's faces brightens into a smile of recollection. "Right, right. I remember. What was the body count, fourteen?"

"Fifteen now," the Latino detective says with an excited grin. "Aw, man. This is gonna be huge."

"Hey, hey. None of that. You want to speculate, I'll have the Captain send you home." She ignores the dual sulks from her teammates. They have to treat this like any other murder investigation. Getting carried away won't do her any good. "Henderson might have alibied out, but that doesn't mean we don't have any other avenues to follow. Ryan, I want you to look into the deceased wife's relatives. Find out if anyone ever threatened Greene. Esposito, work on securing some footage from local traffic cams. I'll go talk to Lanie, see if she's got anything for us yet."

* * *

"Don't you go rushing me, Kate Beckett."

"The boys have their heads wrapped up in theories. I need something solid to get them focused. No DNA? Fingerprints?"

"Girl, you know I need more time to answer those kinds of questions. Now, tell me why you're really here."

"I'm investigating a murder," Kate attempts, but Lanie gives her a death glare, and she shrinks back, mumbling, "You have to ask?"

"Kate, if you think it's such a bad idea, then don't go away with your boy. Tell him you're not ready. Tell him the truth. If he's worth it, he'll understand."

But she already told him yes. And, really, what's the big deal? It's not like he's asking her to marry him. "I'm an adult, Lanie. I should be able to make these kinds of decisions. It's a done deal. He's probably booking the hotel as we speak. Yeah, he might come off a little overly confident, but he genuinely cares. He's sweet and funny, not to mention-"

"Yeah, yeah. Your guy's a stud."

"I thought you said he was a jackass."

"Never said he wasn't a smokin' hot one."

She should've suspected that coming to see Lanie would just serve to irritate her more. "This devil's advocate thing you're doing...I don't like it."

Lanie smiles knowingly and lifts her scalpel. "You weren't meant to." She stabs the surgical knife in the air with a threatening step forward. "Now scram. Come back and bug me later. Like, tomorrow, girly. Get outta here."

* * *

Another day, another murder, and more unanswered questions. Her life is starting to get seriously dull. Well, scratch that. It's not starting to, it's been. When did that happen? When did all the fun in her life disappear?

She knows when.

But she's content enough. And why shouldn't she be? She has her health. She's got a steady job, and that's more than a lot of people can say in this economy. Sure, it doesn't have the greatest pay—not to mention hours—but she doesn't need to live lavishly. Besides, her apartment is nice, quaint. And her boyfriend, well, he's plenty nice too. A little self-confident, but sweet and attractive…

Speak of the devil. She rounds the corner to her hallway and comes face to face with Tom Demming, waiting outside the door to her place with a bouquet in hand, oh.

"Hey." He grins at her in that maddening way he's perfected and thrusts the flowers in her direction. "I've been waiting for you."

"Tom," she breathes, accepting the flowers and raising them to her nose to inhale. She smiles back softly, trying to combat the fear growing inside with her appreciation. It's too late to change her mind now, even if she wanted to. "They're beautiful."

"Yeah, well, you know." He reaches out and touches a lock of her hair, rubs it between his finger and thumb affectionately. "I'm just really happy. I want you to be happy too."

"I am," she says, can't be sure if it's a lie or not, but it feels like the only thing she can say. "Happy enough. Work was a nightmare."

"Yeah, I figured. You're getting in late. I've been standing outside your door for the past hour."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I-"

"Nah." He dismisses her apology with a wave of his hand. "It's cool. I know how it is. You're not the only hotshot detective in this relationship."

"Hmm." She digs out her keys to unlock the front door while mulling over a response. "I don't know what to comment on first: the fact that you just called me a _hotshot detective_, or that you just called yourself one."

"Well, we're certainly both hot."

"Oh yeah, and modest too."

"Very funny." He brushes up against her back as she enters the kitchen, set on finding something to house her roses. "What do you feel like having tonight?"

"Why, are you cooking?" She sends him a wink, and runs the tap to fill up a pitcher with water. It's not a vase, but it'll have to do.

"I'm a man." He puts his hands on his hips and pushes out his chest. "I don't cook."

Okay, well, that's just sexist. But she's too tired from her dead end case to argue. "Buying then."

Her boyfriend sidles up beside her, raises his fingers to her shoulders and begins to rub. His movements are rough, but good. "I could spare a few bucks. Thai? Pizza?"

"Mmm, I hear there's a really good Mediterranean place that came in last month. They deliver."

"Whatever you want." He presses a kiss to her cheek and then whispers, "I'm really glad you said yes. This is going to be a lot of fun. You'll see."

"I'm sure I will." She hopes, at least. "You know, Tom, this thing…nothing can be written in stone. If I get a big case-"

"Don't try to take it back, Kate Beckett."

"I'm not, I'm just saying. Don't go making any elaborate reservations yet."

"Everything is going to be fine, babe." Tom bumps his hip into her own, playfully. "What's the worst that could happen in a week?"

* * *

Thanks for reading. Leave comments down below. Now, who's ready for season 6?


	3. Chapter 3

Wow, time is flying. But as promised, here's my weekly update. I'd like to start maybe updating a little more frequently, but I'll have to speed up the writing process if that's ever to work out. Your reviews and follows definitely make a difference, and I'm grateful for them. And once again, thank you to suz24 for beta-ing this chatper.

Now, how about that premiere? There was so much good stuff packed into such a little episode, I had to watch it twice. Certainly met my expectations, and I can't wait for Dreamworld, yikes!

* * *

The elevator doors open to mass chaos.

"Beckett!" Esposito greets her in a huff, dodging detectives moving around in a flurry of paperwork. "Where have you been?"

Her eyes narrow, and she glances at her father's wristwatch. "It's only eight-thirty. What's going on?"

In a flash, he's guiding her into one of the tech rooms, hand at her shoulder. Not one to be manhandled, she gives a grunt and shrugs him off. "Espo-"

"Sorry, sorry. This is big, Beckett. This is huge. I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail."

Damn it, Tom. He must have turned off her phone sometime after she fell asleep. Probably around the same time he shut off her alarm. Damn it.

Ryan sits at the desk with a few other guys, running through the same camera footage over and over again on the big screen from different angles. The images pause.

"What do we have?"

Her fellow detective spins in his swivel chair to face her, brow knit into concern. "About an hour ago, I got a call from tech. They found a guy on the security cam of a jewelry store local to Reilly's. It was time stamped at 1:57 am."

"Okay, so that would match Greene's estimated TOD. Was he coming or leaving?"

"Leaving, definitely leaving. Not just that, though. He was carrying rope."

Geez. "You have a clear shot of this guy? Run it through facial rec-"

"Already done."

"Got a match?"

"Do we ever," Esposito says, crowding up behind her. "Show her the footage, bro. Run it from the top."

Ryan clicks the computer mouse, and the feed starts to run again. The video is grainy—clearly, the camera is outdated—but she squints to focus in on the approaching figure. It's a man, probably about six foot, six foot one. He's wearing a two-piece suit and dress shoes, hardly the outfit for a good old-fashioned homicide. In his grasp, there's a long, brown line of rope and something else that she catches with a silvery glint, probably a knife or maybe scissors. He stops walking suddenly, looks to his right and to his left, find the camera of the jewelry store with his eyes.

His face. She recognizes that face. Holy hell.

"I know," Javier speaks over her shoulder. He must be able to interpret her reaction, her realization, and is practically vibrating with energy. "Not such a silly theory anymore, huh?"

No, no, not so silly. Because the man on the screen is the Copycat Vigilante, Richard Castle. And he's waving.

* * *

"All right, people. We have a forty-eight-hour window, more or less, before the media catches wind of this development. Let's make it count." Captain Montgomery ends his speech with a clap of his hands, and the detectives are dismissed to their respective posts.

"Sir!" Beckett calls, following her boss into his office. "Sir?"

"Yes, Detective?"

Montgomery has always been one of her greatest allies. As so many others doubted her abilities back when she was in training or an officer on the Vice Squad, the Captain believed in her. For that reason, she hates to ask too much of him. Not when he's already done so much for her and her career.

"I just wanted to know if my team will still be running point in this investigation."

He smiles. "Of course, Beckett. You're the one who got handed the case in the first place. Besides, I want my best people on this one."

Kate tries not to blush—she's never been good at receiving commendation—and staggers awkwardly out of the room. "Thank you, Captain."

Esposito is yelling at someone on the phone while Ryan types furiously at his keyboard, and why oh why did her stupidly considerate boyfriend let her sleep in? His thoughtfulness, more like thoughtlessness, has left her floundering to gain control of her own case when everyone else is already caught up and working ahead.

She flinches at the click of the receiver slamming down into its cradle as a few muffled curses leave her teammate's mouth.

"It's going to take another day to get the warrant for camera footage from the pawn shop on the corner. Apparently people care more about privacy than justice."

"A day?"

"Markaway says he'll see what he can do."

Ah, Judge Markaway. Sure he will. "We can do without it. Traffic cameras, Espo."

"There's nothing. We can't track him walking past the street we already spotted him on. It's like he disappeared."

Ryan quits scrolling through online files to join the conversation. "If he's such a Houdini, why'd he walk past the jewelry store in the first place? He must've seen the camera."

"He wanted to get noticed," she says grimly. "He wanted to be seen because he thinks we can't catch him." The younger detective looks at her like she just crushed his favorite toy, so she continues, "We will catch the cocky bastard, though. We'll bring him in and lock him up for good."

"You'd give him life in prison?" Esposito poses the question as he twirls a pen between his fingers.

"Of course," she responds immediately, narrowing her eyes. "Why, wouldn't you? He's killed fourteen people."

"Fifteen people," Ryan murmurs over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Yeah, but those were stone cold killers. They murdered women, children."

"Never proven," she points out, but the other detective ignores her.

"This guy, he takes the law into his hands when justice is corrupted, you know?"

"Real life superhero," his partner muses. She can practically see the stars in his eyes. _Come now, Kevin._ But then he sobers. "Shame he had to kill 'em."

"You guys have watched way too many Batman movies. But that's beside the point, the point being that it's our responsibility to catch this guy. I see two possible avenues of escape." She stands to scribble on the whiteboard. "Either he stuck around for a little while and then hopped a cab, or he entered one of the apartment complexes nearby. And that means our next move is-"

"More canvassing," the boys groan in unison. Well, they can moan and groan all they want. They have a job to do, and they have to do it fast before the press descends like vultures and ruins their chance of ever catching this guy.

"Stop whining," she uses her most authoritative voice. "And start doing."

* * *

She makes them wear their vests, won't let them knock on doors without the protection. Esposito tries to refuse, all macho, arms crossed. But they're looking for a _serial killer_, a man who's already taken fifteen lives. What's another cop or two more? No, they'll be prepared.

The first apartment complex on the checklist is old and rundown. The carpet is faded and the curtains are threadbare. The doorman—she's surprised this building even has a doorman, but he's more of a security guard, and that kind of makes sense in such a rough neighborhood—is honest, at least. He was the one on post during the night of the murder, but he was taking a nap from midnight 'til four and didn't catch a thing. Lovely.

They start knocking on doors, units with windows facing the street only. Ryan and Espo take the second floor, and she takes the third. They'll work their way up. Her partners protest, but she's used to flying solo. She can handle herself just fine.

Most of the tenants are uninterested and unhelpful, no surprise there. Living in this city often desensitizes people to little things like _murder_. She passes the guys on her way up the stairs to the fifth floor. No luck for them either. They might have to call in some unis to help; there are way too many buildings around here for three people to cover with their time constraints. Finally, though, in apartment 5C, she finds someone who might be able to help her.

"As a matter of fact, dear, I did see somebody wandering around the streets this morning. Come, come in!" The elderly woman waves Kate in with her cane. She has warm eyes, white hair, and dons a purple sweater covered in tiny embroidered kittens. Her frail form is swallowed by the knit monstrosity, and the detective fights the urge to chuckle. She's a cute old lady. "Let me make you some tea!"

"That's quite all right, thank you, Ms-"

"Oh, you can call me Nana." Right. Okay.

"So…Nana, you said you saw someone outside your window early this morning? Wandering?"

"I did, I did indeed. And let me tell you, he looked a wee bit suspicious to me, pacing in the alleyway like a crazy person for a solid hour."

"Could you tell me what time this took place?"

"Oh, around three or so? Maybe two? I can't be certain. I had a difficult time settling down last night. It's the insomnia, been coming and going ever since Barry died four years ago. He was my husband." The detective feels a pang of sympathy for the older woman, Nana. "I don't feel as safe here without him. I guess you could say I'm a little paranoid, always watching out the window."

Kate gives her a little smile. "That habit might help us out a great deal today. Now, tell me, did you see the man in the alley leave? Which way he went?"

"Oh, well, I was worried about him. I called a cab service and asked them if they could circle around."

Did she hear that correctly? "I'm sorry, what?"

"Yellow Cab, dear. It took the driver about twenty minutes to get here, and the man seemed a bit flustered at first, but he accepted the ride. I have the phone number if you want to try to speak with whoever picked him up."

"Seriously?" Esposito asks in disbelief when she relays the information, as if she would be making this up.

"If what Nana said is correct, we're looking at a different time frame. Ryan, you scrub the surveillance tapes again. Espo, you get on the phone with Yellow Cab and find out who picked our guy up. Then, we'll bring him in."

When they do finally find their cab driver, Abhinav Malik, he comes willingly, almost eagerly.

"You telling me I was driving round a serial killer? A real live serial killer?" the cabbie asks in broken English. He's middle-aged, dark-skinned, balding. And he looks like he's about to fly out of his seat with excitement.

"I'm afraid so." Kate deadpans. "Now, can you tell us where you drove this man?"

"Yes, yes. It is all on the GPS. I take him to a yard full of empty warehouses. Old buildings, very old. I have the address. I have to tell my family. A real live serial killer, and here I am."

She tries not to roll her eyes. Everyone just wants their fifteen minutes of fame or a story to tell. "I'd like that address now, Mr. Malik."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Stay with me, now. Next chapter's going to get a little bit interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey, guys. This chapter was a bit of a struggle, but I managed with the help of my friend suz24. After a couple rounds of editing, I think I'm happy with the final result. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

They take a SWAT team to the address the cabbie gave them. It's on the outskirts, three warehouses and one abandoned office building, and he could be in any of them.

The team raids the warehouses while a smaller group goes to toss the building. Esposito, Ryan, and she climb the stairs from floor to floor, peering into the desolate offices, dust covering the desks and chairs remaining.

Until they reach the fifth floor, everything looks to be perfectly normal. Creepy, but normal.

"Whatcha got there, Beckett?" She looks up from her crouch on the floor to address Kevin Ryan in his bulletproof vest and helmet, peering down at her.

"Wrapper. Granola bar. Expiration date hasn't passed yet."

"So either I'm never eating General Mills again or…"

"Or he was staying here. Recently."

"Good," he heaves an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Anything preserved that long could _not _be good for you."

"Ryan. Focus. We can verify what the cabbie said now. Richard Castle was here."

"Coulda been a squatter," Esposito suggests, turning off the light on his scope. "But whoever it was, he's not here now. SWAT cleared the floor. Let's get out of here. Still have a few more to go."

The three of them move onto the sixth floor, splitting up to cover the offices. But then she remembers the wrapper, checks her pockets. Damn. She forgot to bag it.

She goes solo back to the fifth floor, gun tucked back into her belt. She doesn't have a flashlight, had been relying on the SWAT team's scopes to light the way. It takes a little while for her to get her bearings in the dim room, the early moonlight providing shoddy illumination. Then, she spots it, the shiny silver wrapper resting on the floorboards. Beckett bends down and then freezes.

She's not alone.

She feels him there before she sees him; a shift in the air, the presence of another body entering the room so silently makes the fine hair of her forearms stand on end. It's him, she knows it is. She has a hand on her holster and goes to turn around.

"Don't move," he breathes onto her neck. She underestimated his proximity. He's right up against her, his hand prying her fingers from the gun. Shit, shit. The boys are only a few floors down. Maybe…

"And don't think about calling for help," his voice is menacing, sends a shiver down her spine. _Be cool, Beckett, be cool_.

"You're not going to kill me, Castle."

"Oh yeah? And why not?"

"You're a vigilante. I'm a cop, not a murderer. You wouldn't-"

"Collateral damage." His hand slides from her waist up to her shoulder, and he whispers, "You're in my way."

She reacts on instinct, slamming an elbow into his ribs. He stumbles back a few feet, and she lurches forward, putting some distance between them before she turns around. Her eyes adjust in the darkness to make out the man's form. She grabs for-

"Looking for this?" He's still bent over in pain, but grins, holding up her Sig. Oh, hell. "You know," he begins, straightening his spine. "We do have common interests. We both just want to get bad men off the street."

What a load of BS. She scoffs, "Yeah, bad men. Like murderers. Like _you_."

"You have to take the life of a human to be a murderer, _Detective_. Then men I killed…they were _no_ _humans_."

"Yeah, well, the criminal justice system sees it a little differently." She has to take control of the situation. Quickly. "Now, put down the gun, Mr. Castle. We can get you some help. You just have to drop it."

Richard Castle lets out a bitter laugh. "You think I need _help_?" he asks. "I used to be young and naïve like you. I used to rely on the law, but the law is just plain unreliable. Now, I help myself. You wouldn't understand."

"Just by looking at me, you think I don't know what you went through? You think I don't know a thing or two about vengeance?" She doesn't mean to get caught up in this conversation, but it's hard not to take some things personally. She understands all too well.

As if accepting the challenge, he does look at her. Through the darkness, with squinted eyes, he looks, and then he says, "Something happened."

"What?"

"Not to you. No, you're wounded, but you're not that , it was somebody you cared about. It was someone you loved."

"My mother," she finds herself confessing to him. And why would she tell him that? As a strategic move to talk him down? To relate to him in hopes that he'll put down the gun and surrender? Or is it the way he saw right through her just now? How he stripped her naked with just a few sentences. "So yes, I do know what you went through."

"I'm sorry," he says, and she thinks that she sees his eyes softening, almost imperceptibly, but it's difficult to tell in the dim light of the room. Then, he clears his throat, resumes the cool stance from moments ago. "And how did that work for you? What did you get from the legal system? Justice?"

She grits her teeth, has to keep herself in check. "Her killer was never caught."

"Is that right? So that's why you became a cop. To catch the man who took her from you."

"Cute trick." She finds herself out of breath. He's observant, good at reading human emotions for a psychopathic killer. Makes him all the more formidable. "But don't think you know me."

He smirks, as if everything is falling into place, as if she's playing right into his hands. "What will you do when you succeed, if you succeed? You'll cuff him, read him his rights, send him off to booking. Maybe there will be a trial. Maybe he'll be found guilty and sent to prison for a very long time. But it won't be enough."

"I put it behind me long ago."

"Well look at you, been telling yourself that for so long, you're actually starting to believe your own lies."

Oh, that is _it_. She shuffles forward a few steps. "Drop the weapon, Castle. Then maybe we can continue to delve into my personal life. On the way to booking."

"As delightful as that sounds," he lets out a dark chuckle, "I think I'm comfortable right here."

"I mean it. My team will be up here any minute, and they won't take assault on an officer lightly."

"What, as opposed to my multiple _murder_ charges? Besides, you're bluffing. Your men just cleared this floor, and not very well, I might add. Paintings aren't just used to hide vaults in the movies, you know? They won't be coming up here until they realize you're missing. And by then…" He flicks the safety on her gun on and off. _He's just trying to scare you, Kate. He won't really kill you. It's not his MO. _She takes another stride toward him. He starts to speak again.

"So, your mother. Was she shot? Drowned? Stabbed?" She must have a look in her eyes. But maybe not; it's pretty dark. Maybe she flinched. Either way, he certainly notices. "Stabbed, then? Now, wouldn't it be satisfying to find the man that killed her? To look him in the eye, to raise the knife—maybe the same one he used to kill your mother—and watch as he struggles, as the knife pierces his heart, blood gushing. To hold him there until he takes...his last…breath."

"How poetic," she drawls. "Maybe you should've been a bard instead of a serial killer." He's almost within an arm's length distance. If she can get a little closer, she'll be able to drop him, kick the weapon out of his hand and cuff him before he can blink. Just a little closer.

"But wouldn't it be exhilarating? You can't tell me you never thought about it."

He's right. She can't tell him. But she became a cop to escape all of that. The depression, the vengeful thoughts. "Sometimes you just have to let it go."

He seems to contemplate her words. "Okay." He goes into a crouch, placing her Sig on the ground before standing again. "Okay." The man holds his hands out. In surrender.

What is he playing at? She hesitates for a moment, and then reaches to her belt to grab her cuffs. "Richard Castle, you are under arrest for-"

Suddenly, he's got his hand wrapped around her wrist, and he's shoving her against the brick wall of the room, twisting her arm behind her back, reversing their position from only a moment ago. Damn it. Oh-

She feels his hand close over her mouth, something sharp at her neck. A needle. It's a syringe full of God knows what, and he's jabbing it into her skin.

"_Goodbye, Detective_," she hears him whisper before everything fades.

* * *

Hope this meeting lived up to expectations. Let me know what your thoughts are, and stay tuned for chapter 5!


	5. Chapter 5

This one is a little short, but hopefully posting a little early makes up for it? Thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter, suz24 for beta-ing, and Bahamut Slayer for the words of encouragement. I really appreciate all of you. Now, on with the story.

* * *

He catches her when she falls unconscious, cradling her body on its descent to the floor. So much spunk and fire in this one, he has to chuckle. There's no reasoning with someone who's taken as many lives as he has, but it was a valiant effort on her part.

Castle caps the syringe and slips it back into his pocket. Then, there's the matter of the gun. He debates with himself for a moment before securing it back into her holster. It's not as if she can use it against him now. And, ah, what's this? Her badge falls off of her belt, and he picks it up.

"Detective K. Beckett," he murmurs. The name has a good ring to it. He clips it back to her side.

She has a nice face, a really nice face. He's always had a soft spot for pretty women. It almost makes him feel bad leaving her here like this, but her squad will find her soon enough.

Her mother was murdered. They have that in common. She took the high road, and he...not so much. But he doesn't regret it, he can't. If he did, it would make this - his life mission - all for nothing.

Poor, poor Detective. She never got the justice he did. She never got to taste revenge, and nary is there a sweeter poison. It's a shame, really. No one deserves to go through that, he knows firsthand. But maybe it's something he can fix.

The idea sparks, and once that happens, there's no going back. He's always had an obsessive personality. His mind is flying at a hundred miles a minute. _But it's so soon_, he has to consider. Usually he waits at least a few months to start planning another-

Well, maybe this will be a tough case to crack if the woman lying before him hasn't solved it yet. And he's always up for a challenge.

* * *

"_Beckett, Beckett, Beckett_," her name echoes around in her skull. "Beckett!"

She opens her eyes, closing them immediately afterward to shield her pupils from the brilliant beam of Ryan's flashlight. Flashlight? Oh.

"Shit," Kate groans, trying to sit up. She cracks one eyelid open. "What the hell happened?"

"You tell us. But from the looks of it," Esposito gestures toward her, "you got jacked."

She hisses, pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Her head is pounding.

"He drugged me. Richard Castle…he was here. I came back downstairs to grab the wrapper, thought we could lift the prints, and he was here, hiding in a wall safe. The son of a bitch _drugged_ me."

"You're sure it was him?" Ryan asks gently, good-naturedly, but she just glares back at him in response. "Okay, okay. It was him. What did he say?"

"He said a lot of things." Some things she'd rather forget. "He admitted to killing Greene, if that's what you're asking."

Esposito offers her a hand. In a moment of weakness, she accepts, legs still wobbly. Probably a side effect of whatever she was dosed with.

"How long did it take you guys to find me?"

The boys glance at each other sheepishly before Esposito gives a little cough and says, "About an hour."

"Damn." He's in the wind now. With his experience as a convict on the run…

"He can't have made it very far," the Irish detective tries to reassure her.

"You really believe that? No, we lost him. Now that he knows we've tracked him this far-"

"He'll disappear," Esposito interjects. "Giving up already, Beckett? That's not like you."

She scowls. "_Hell_ no. Not giving up. Not by half. So let's stop standing around. Let's get a move on. We can't let him get too far off the grid, but even if he does, it'll be on the national news by tomorrow morning, the day after at the most. As bad as that seems, civilians will be keeping their eyes open. Other precincts will be involved."

"The feds will be all over it," Ryan moans.

Ugh, the feds. "I'm not gonna like it any more than you, but when that happens, we'll have to deal with it. If the FBI wants to cooperate with us-"

"Cooperate?" _Geez, Esposito, interrupt much? _"The FBI doesn't cooperate. They take over."

"_We'll deal with it_," Kate growls, moving to take a step. She stumbles forward like a newborn foal, teetering on her heels, immediately feeling the hands of her partners on her shoulders to steady her. She flushes, tries to brush them off, and sees them exchange a look.

"I'll go ahead with the team. Ryan can give you a ride to the-"

"I _don't_ need to go to the hospital." She grits her teeth. "I'm _fine_."

Clearly, they don't believe her. Ryan still keeps his hand on her, grip moving to her elbow, as Esposito takes a step back to look her over. But really, the mother hen thing is so unnecessary.

"You look pale." Javier rubs his chin in thought. "At least let Lanie take a blood sample."

Beckett doesn't want to go, doesn't need to. She'll be okay. Whatever the psycho injected her with, a mild animal tranquilizer most likely, wore off fast enough. Surely the dosage wasn't enough to do any serious damage. But one look at the boys tells her they won't let it go, no matter how much she argues otherwise, so she concedes. They'll just make a little stop at the morgue, no lounging around in a hospital waiting room. Then, back to business.

* * *

"Who was that, Kate?" her boyfriend asks, looking up from his container of cashew chicken. She had to cancel their dinner plans, but he surprised her by showing up to her apartment at midnight with a bag of Chinese food in hand. It's just like him to know that she would still be awake, raking over case files.

He yanks her over to the couch by her hand and pulls her into his lap.

"Feet off the coffee table." She swats at his legs, and he lowers them, arm wrapping around her waist to drag her closer. "That was Lanie, just calling me back about some test results."

"Test results? Any closer to catching the serial killer?"

"No, no," she sighs. Honesty is the best policy, right? "They were my test results, Tom. My blood sample. I, uh, got into an altercation with Richard Castle today."

"_What_?"

"Just a little scuffle. I'm fine, but he got the jump on me while we were raiding the office complex he'd been staying in. I was drugged. Just modified telazol, Lanie said, not laced with anything too harmful."

"_Kate_."

"I'm fine, really. "

He's not convinced. "Are you sure?"

It's not like he's never been in any tough situations. He's a detective. Everyone gets injured on the job eventually, and this is hardly the worst thing that's ever happened to her. Man, back when she was a beat cop, training under Royce…_that_ was tough. She's better at her job now, more experienced and less reckless.

"I'm sure. But, Tom? There's something I want to talk to you about."

He sets down his take-out box and frowns. Of course. She's so stupid. "We need to talk" is definitely not the way to begin any conversation with your significant other.

"Is it about this weekend?"

Hit the nail on the head. "I know what I said, but-"

"You gotta be kidding me."

"Tom, I wanted to go. I still want to go. But with this case, now is just not a good time." She grabs his hand, but he pushes her away, wriggling his body out from under hers. "You have to understand."

"Understand what?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Understand that my girlfriend always uses her job as an excuse to not spend time with me? I thought we really had something here, Kate. Something good."

"We do," she murmurs. "This isn't about us. This is about a serial killer on the loose. People need me here. Besides, we both know what it's like to have such demanding hours. That's why we work."

"Is that what this is, a working relationship? Because I feel like I'm the only one doing any work at all." How can he say that? This isn't how things were supposed to go. Dating another cop was supposed to make the scheduling problems a little more manageable. He was supposed to be understanding. "I already made the damn reservations!"

"I told you not to."

"Because you were planning to back out all along, weren't you?"

"No!" She wasn't. She really wasn't. "Listen, we can go another weekend after this whole thing clears up. I promise."

He walks to her closet and yanks out his jacket. "There won't be another weekend. I'm tired of this, Kate. It's always the same thing with you. I'm ready to take the next step, and you're just not. Maybe you never will be."

"_Tom_."

"No, this is it, Beckett. We need a break."

The door slams behind him. She doesn't try to follow.

* * *

Thanks for sticking around. Let me hear your thoughts down below. :)


	6. Chapter 6

This chapter has gone through a lot of changes. Hope it turned out okay. I'm very grateful to my beta, suz24, and to all of those who reviewed even though I didn't get a chance to send out personal thank yous this week. The encouragement helps more than you know. Anyways, enjoy!

* * *

It's headline news the following morning.

"Copycat Vigilante Richard Castle strikes again," the news anchor reports. "In a shocking turn of events, the Copycat Vigilante reemerges after five years of silence. We'll now turn to our on-the-scene correspondent, Mark Thomas. Mark, are you there?"

"I'm here, Judy!" Mark yells over the rush of voices around him. The screen flashes to a man with slicked back hair, vibrant teeth, and a microphone. "We're waiting outside of the house of Edward Henry, father-in-law of our vigilante's latest victim."

"Mr. Henry! Mr. Henry, over here! Edward, give us a statement!" the press shouts, swarming the driveway as Darla Greene's father exits his house.

Mark Thomas motions to the cameramen to follow him, inching closer to the action. "Let's see what Mr. Henry has to say."

"You want to know what I think of the Copycat Vigilante?" Edward Henry yells loud enough to silence the crowd. "Well, he left me a note to say 'you're welcome.' And you know what? I am thankful to him. Marshall Greene killed my daughter and thought he could get away with it. If I knew where Richard Castle was right now, I'd send him a gift basket."

The camera focuses back in on the reporter. "Well, there you have it. The Copycat Vigilante has attracted quite a band of supporters here in New York over the past two decades. Now, the note Mr. Henry just referred to has become sort of a calling card for Richard Castle, hasn't it, Judy?"

"That's right, Mark. And while the NYPD has not yet released a copy of this note to the press-"

The television screen goes black, met with the groans of the entire homicide floor. Esposito stands in front, holding the remote. Beckett couldn't be more grateful.

"Move on. There's nothing to see here. Get back to work."

* * *

The FBI comes and goes. With each passing day, the case grows colder. Evidence is lacking. No new bodies appear. After three months' time with no leads, it seems that everyone's given up. But not her.

"Beckett, hurry up! We got a live one!" She turns to Esposito, gives him the one-more-minute gesture before bending back over her files.

Richard Castle. His picture stares back at her, with those blue eyes that haunt her nights. She isn't giving up hope yet, works on the case in whatever free time she gets. She hasn't wanted to nail a criminal so badly since…

Yeah.

But life moves on. More murders, more paperwork. And although the FBI promised that they had a small team still investigating, she can't let the search go. Kate knows they're just waiting for him to strike again._ She_ wants to prevent that from ever happening.

The trouble is that he has no pattern, the Copycat Vigilante. He murders at whim, fueled by some twisted sense of justice. The longest period of time between his kills was the last five years. The shortest was six months, between his first and second victims back in 1991. She was only eleven years old, but she still remembers the investigation being broadcast on TV, the first suspicions from news reporters that they might be dealing with a serial killer.

His story…it warrants some sympathy. His mother, actress and live performer Martha Rodgers, brutally murdered in 1989. The original investigation attributed it to a home invasion. But Richard Castle - Richard Hunt back then - didn't see it that way. Reminds her of herself, actually.

He found a way to hack into his father's personal files, a tremendous feat given that the man was CIA. And in those files, he found what he thought he needed. Incriminating evidence.

Agent Jackson Hunt killed his wife in cold blood and then used his government resources to cover it up. He broke her wrist in a struggle. Kicked her in the ribs. Shot her in the chest at close range. It was bloody and brutal. And somehow, young Richard Hunt at seventeen years old had known that his father was capable of such violence. Then, two years later, he came up with a plan.

It was a tragedy. But that doesn't excuse murder.

She closes the file.

* * *

Damian Westlake is first on her list when she begins building her own profile. He's a former classmate of Richard Castle's, one who spoke out to the press in the very beginning, after Castle had killed his father and then went on the run.

"He seemed like a good guy," Damian sighs, running a hand over his face. "He was shy, a little withdrawn maybe. But he moved around a lot, didn't really have many friends, you know?"

Kate scribbles the information on her notepad. _Withdrawn_. _No friends_. "And what was your relationship with him?"

"I was the editor of the school magazine, and I sort of took him under my wing. Rick was, well, he was a great writer. He had a real talent with words. I tried to encourage that. I knew he had a challenging life at home - it was written all over his face - so I was glad to see him so passionate about something. He seemed happy. Even after all these years, I still can't believe what he did."

That's what they always said. _I never knew he was capable of _or _he was such a nice guy, I never thought_. It's not like people walked around with signs that said "serial killer" or "psychopath" hanging around their necks.

She finds Kyra Blaine-Murphy a week later. The woman went to college with him and was even suspected as an accomplice at the time of the first murder.

"This is really difficult for me to talk about," Kyra tells her, earnestly. "Even to my own husband, I can't...it's hard."

"Take your time," Beckett reassures. "There's no rush here."

"I know." She takes a deep breath. "Richard and I spent a lot of time together. I liked spending time with him. He was interesting. Dark and brooding, I guess. Maybe a little haunted. When he told me about his mother's murder, I felt so bad for him. I wanted to protect him from the world. It was silly." She gives a self-deprecating shrug.

"Not silly. You were kind, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm sure he appreciated it."

"I started to fall for him," she whispers. "And I still feel so guilty about it. How could I have loved a man who was able to do such violent things?"

"You have no fault in this, Kyra." She lays a soothing hand to the woman's shoulder.

"I know. That's what my therapist told me," she says with a sad chuckle. "Back then, the cops thought I was in on the whole thing or that I was covering for him. I guess people thought we were dating. Not to say I hadn't tried, but he never seemed interested in me as more than a friend. Even then, he had a hard time connecting with people, so friendship might have been an overstatement. But sometimes, when I looked in his eyes…sometimes it seemed like he might have felt the same."

Kate thinks back to her own experience, his eyes, and tries to reign in a shudder.

"He was writing a book, did you know that? He wanted to get it published, let me read some of the first draft. It was incredible, such talent. He could have been something really special. He could have accomplished so much. I believed in him. So why did things end up like this?"

* * *

The next month gets easier. Kate starts to feel herself slipping into the sea of apathy that her colleagues seem so content to swim in. It's uncharted territory for the detective, but she stays afloat with her heavy case load. Double homicides, one after another. She finds herself bogged down with more work than she knows what to do with, complex cases with plenty of suspects and murderers that aren't currently God knows where, probably out of the state by now if not out of the country. But it's comforting, the ability to solve with a good deal of effort, knowing that her hard work isn't in vain.

It takes her mind off that boy who got his own brand of justice that just wasn't enough.

More importantly, it takes her mind off of her own quest for justice, away from that night eleven years ago and that alley, cold and damp and stained red with her mother's blood.

When she looks up, Ryan's tapping on the corner of her desk to get her attention. "Beckett. Lanie has something to show you in the morgue." He gives her a nervous nod and retreats back to his desk. He's as transparent as a window, that kid. Good guy, but a terrible actor.

She can't be mad at him, though. He's merely the messenger. Lanie on the other hand…

She reaches for her jacket. Against her better judgment, the detective decides to indulge her nosy, overbearing friend. But she's sure as hell that evidence isn't why she's being summoned.

* * *

"Whaddaya got for me, Lanie?"

The ME looks up from a pale cadaver, her blue gloves spattered in blood and guts. "Hello to you too. Just let me just get freshened up here."

Beckett boosts herself up onto a clean slab, gives the woman time to toss her gloves and wash up before tearing in.

"This isn't about the case is it?"

Lanie gives her an innocent glance. "Now, whatever do you mean?"

"Cut the crap, Lanie. You and the boys have been talking. A lot. And that's never a good sign."

The doctor's eyes ooze feeling like melted chocolate, warm and sympathetic. "Kate. We're just concerned. Can't your friends be concerned?"

"Ugh." She knew it, she knew it. All the time with these people. They just can't mind their own damn business, gossiping like a bunch of little old ladies in a nursing home.

She never does this to any of them. She never orchestrates their little unit to poke and prod. Okay, well, maybe there was that one time when Esposito found out the hot waitress he met at the club wasn't exactly…what was her name? Andy? Geez, Ryan ribbed him for _months_ until Beckett finally put a stop to it. But that had been purely professional. Javi's mortification was a detriment to the team.

She tries to hop off of the table, but Lanie's quick to catch her, red-lacquered nails digging into her thigh.

"Uh uh, girl. Let's talk."

"There's nothing to talk _about_."

"You think you have such a good poker face, but I'm your best friend. I know you, and the boys do too, and we can see that you haven't been yourself lately. So come on. Lay it all out on the table. Right here, right now. If you want, I have a six-pack chilling in the freezer. Or well, Javi does, but he won't mind."

Kate wrinkles her nose. "In the freezer? Like the freezer where you keep the-"

"Shhh, it's better if you just don't think about it. Besides, I keep my morgue clean. You could eat off these floors."

She can't help but let out a little chuckle. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm on duty."

"Rain check then." The doctor retracts her claws from Beckett's slacks, hoists a leg up onto the slab herself, and folds her hands in her lap expectantly.

"Fine, fine. I've been a little distracted lately." Then, off the ME's raised eyebrow, "Okay, _a lot _lately. I just can't stop...thinking about him."

"Honey." Lanie clutches at her hand. "I didn't realize you were still upset about this. I'm sorry things ended the way they did. If you ask me, Tom Demming is a damn fool for letting you go."

"What?" she hisses. "No! This isn't about _Tom_. I told you, I got over it, and I did. I'm talking about Richard Castle. The Copycat Vigilante case."

"Oh," her friend sounds perplexed. "Beckett, it's not like he's the first killer to get away. Besides, the FBI still has their people on it."

"Do they really? Or are they just waiting for him to come back and murder someone else? He's a serial killer, Lanie. He's dangerous. This isn't just any other case."

"No, I guess it's not," her voice trails off. "You were alone with him, Kate. What happened that night?"

Oh, no. It's not like that. "Nothing, Lanie. Nothing you don't already know, at least. I would tell you if something did." Her friend doesn't look convinced. "I swear."

"Then what's the problem, girl?"

She takes a deep breath. "I've been having these dreams," she starts, and Lanie waits for her to continue. "I dream about him, Lanie. I see his eyes. I feel him grabbing my wrist and forcing me against the wall. I hear him…mocking me."

"And these dreams, you're having them a lot?"

She nods.

"I'm glad you're telling me this, Kate, but maybe you ought to talk to somebody. What about that one guy Ryan talked to after that case at the elementary school?"

Poor Kevin. He was just starting out, only six months in as a detective. Esposito was still giving him a rough time, some kind of ridiculous hazing ritual. And that case…that case was hard, but it hit Ryan the most. It took three weeks of therapy before he was cleared for work again.

"The psychiatrist? Dr. Burke? No, I've heard stories. Jedi mind tricks. At least that's what Ryan said. No thank you. I'm fine, Lanie. Really."

Her friend heaves a sigh and stands. "If you say so, girl. But I'm here for you—you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." She can't really fault Lanie…even if her sense of responsibility is a little misguided. She's totally fine. Completely all right. One hundred percent A-OK.

Aside from the not sleeping thing. But that's what drugstore prescriptions are for.

The rest of her day is spent chasing a suspect across Brooklyn. After plowing down Esposito, he makes it three blocks before she tackles him into the back of a minivan. Her wrist is sprained and her forearm bruised, but it's worth it to hear the man moaning from the pavement. Serves him right.

In the end, it's as simple as that. They get him back to the precinct, he confesses, case closed. She shoves the unfinished paperwork in her desk drawer when the view of Ryan nursing his partner's wounds becomes too sickening to bear.

"Get a room," she calls and gets two matching glares in return. "It's just a black eye. I think he'll live."

Esposito presses the blue ice pack against the lump on his eyebrow with a wince. "How's that wrist?"

"I think I'll live too," Kate chuckles, tugging the gauze on her arm a little tighter. "Well, I'm heading out for the night. You boys should too." They nod and begin to gather their things. Before she can leave, her desk phone rings, the sound invoking groans from the whole team.

"Not a body," Espo moans, slouching back into his chair. "Please, not a body."

She listens to the voice on the line for a moment. "I'll be there." And then drops the phone into its cradle. Odd, so very odd. "You guys remember the Johnny Vong case?"

"I own a boat!" the Latino detective declares, trying to be enthusiastic, but ultimately failing as he lets his raised arm fall with a thud back to the armrest. "What about it?"

"Dick Coonan, the guy we put away for murdering his brother…he's dead."

* * *

Thank you for reading. Leave your thoughts and feedback below. From here on out, things are going to speed up. Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy ride.


	7. Chapter 7

Hey, guys. It's that time of the week. Once again, sorry that I didn't have time to send out personal thank yous. I very much appreciate the support and encouragement from all who reviewed and/or followed this story. Also, suz24 is an awesome beta. Without further ado...

* * *

Beckett tells the boys that they don't have to come with her, but Ryan insists, much to his partner's chagrin. It's not often that one of the men they arrest winds up dead outside of his cell with no explanation. Or if it is, they don't usually get a call about it.

A uniform named Ryker directs them to the crime scene, shamelessly flirting with her all the way, and is this really the time or place?

When they arrive, Dick Coonan's body rests against the iron bars, blood pooling beneath him. She's struck by the memory of the last time she saw him, of his gun pressed into her side as he tried to lead her out of the 12th as a hostage. Thankfully, she was able to swing a leg out and knock him off balance as Captain Montgomery fired a shot at his kneecap.

He said something to her as he was being hauled out on a stretcher, something she hasn't been able to forget. "This is so much bigger than you, Detective."

She credited it to the ramblings of a murderer, a murderer with a bullet in his leg. But she still had to wonder…

"Stab wounds," Ryan observes. "Multiple."

"Professional," Esposito grunts at his side. "Just like what he did to his brother. One fatal blow and more perforations to make it look random."

Her heart stops. "His brother."

"You don't think…" Ryan starts.

"No," she agrees grimly. "I _don't_ think. I _know_. This is him. This is Richard Castle."

"We can't jump to conclusions," Javier murmurs, unintentionally mimicking her.

"Detective Beckett?" Ryker approaches again, this time with something in hand. "We found this inside his pocket. It's a letter addressed to you."

She takes the envelope with a shaky hand, feels the air behind her crackling with tension as the boys peer around her shoulders.

"Kate," she reads, breathless, "You're welcome. Sincerely, RC."

"Oh," the boys say in unison, their voices a blend of fear and sympathy.

She turns, eyes blazing, to Esposito. "Still think I'm jumping to conclusions?"

"I don't understand." She was supposed to thank him for killing a man that she put in prison? But why? "He kills people who murdered _women_. So why would he choose to avenge Jack Coonan?"

"Maybe he wanted to get your attention." Ryan takes a sip of his coffee from the guard's office. They sit around a table in the visitation room, lighting harsh against the white walls and chairs bolted to the floor.

"Jack Coonan wasn't his only victim." Esposito stands and starts to pace back and forth through the little room. As if she wasn't nervous enough already. "He murdered guys for hire. Maybe women too."

"But what does that have to do with me?" Dick Coonan, dead. Over a dozen knife wounds in the chest. Precise. Brutally stabbed and left there propped up against the bars of his cell. Like his brother. Like her…like her-

_Now, wouldn't it be satisfying to find the man that killed her? To look him in the eye, to raise the knife—maybe the same one he used to kill your mother—and watch as he struggles, as the knife pierces his heart, blood gushing. To hold him there until he takes...his last…breath._

Oh. Oh, God. This can't be happening. "I want his body taken back to the morgue. Lanie can-"

"Beckett," Ryan soothes, laying a hand to her bicep until she flinches away. "The FBI is going to be here within the hour. It's their case now, their jurisdiction."

"No," she refuses and turns to Esposito. "Would you stop the damn pacing?" He halts, mid-step, left foot frozen comically in the air. She rolls her eyes. "We're taking his body back to the lab for Lanie to examine. After that, the FBI can ship it off to D.C. for all I care."

"Kate," Esposito murmurs. She hates when he calls her that in that tone of voice, _hates_ it. It makes her feel weak and helpless. "Why is this so important?"

"This isn't just about Dick Coonan anymore. Not about Jack or Johnny Vong." Beckett presses her forehead to the curve between pointer finger and thumb, squeezing to relieve the tension.

"Then what is it about?" Ryan and Esposito synchronize again, and it's seriously freaky when they do that. Lord help her if she ever finds someone to finish her sentences.

"This is about my mom."

It takes some self-degradation and pleading to get the FBI agent in charge to finally relent. They can take the body to their morgue for twenty-four hours, no more than that. But that's all she needs. Just a little bit of time for Lanie to do her thing, compare his body with her mom's reports.

Dick Coonan. She looked her mother's killer in the eye and didn't suspect a thing. How the hell did Richard Frickin' Castle figure it all out?

A few hours later, Lanie's forcing her to sit down.

"I can stand, Lanie. I already know what you're going to say."

"Girl, get your butt in that chair before I make you."

They sit, and they talk, and the results are conclusive. All three murders, Johanna Beckett and Jack and Dick Coonan, they all match. Maybe it was good that she sat down because she's starting to feel pretty light headed.

"I know this is a lot to handle, honey. You want me to get you something? A glass of water maybe?"

"No, no." She definitely does not need to be coddled right now. "I need to be on this case. I need to convince the FBI to let me in. To inform me of new developments. Anything."

"Not right now, you don't. You're lucky you caught me when you did. I was almost out of here. It's late, and Montgomery's going to send you home in a heartbeat. He'll probably tell you not to come in tomorrow too."

Damn it, she's probably right. Montgomery's soft spot for her is as much a curse as a blessing.

"I need to know, Lanie." Kate's lower lip slips into her mouth, and she kneads it between sharp teeth. A terrible habit, but she's nervous. "I need to know why. Why would someone have a hit out on my mom? What kind of trouble was she in?"

"The case will still be here when you get back."

Beckett pauses for a moment, trying to come up with a sensible response, something that will make her friend understand. "You know, the cops who investigated this in the first place attributed my mother's murder to gang violence."

Lanie tries to frown at her because she knows where this is going but just ends up looking sheepish, and that's good. That means it's working.

"I knew that they were wrong. I just had a feeling, all these years. Now finally, _finally_, I'm getting some answers. You can't tell me to turn back now. This is what I've been waiting for."

"Kate," she sighs, "do you remember what you told me after your dad got out of rehab?"

Oh, now she's just playing dirty. "This is completely different, and you know it."

The doctor gives a sad shake of her head, closing the manila folder of crime scene photos and autopsy reports. "You told me that you could see him in yourself, and it scared you. You were drowning in your mother's case just like he was drowning in the bottle. You made a promise to yourself that-"

"Enough," she grunts, snatching the file folder. _Of all the nerve_. "Enough. You have no right."

"Kate," Lanie calls after her, but she won't stop. She won't give her the satisfaction. "Beckett!"

Montgomery sends her home, just like Lanie warned. Oh, Lanie. They'll make up later. Tonight, she needs to make a few phone calls to the fine federal agents on the Castle case. Then, she'll dig out her mother's files and construct a makeshift murder board, just like old times. But now, she has new names to add, new dots to connect. Maybe a bottle of wine would be nice too. And a bath.

Kate fumbles for her keys, cursing her frayed nerves and unsteady hands. It takes her a moment to realize that the door is already unlocked.

She's not surprised in the least when she finds him in her apartment.

* * *

Thanks for reading. If feeling so inclined, leave thoughts and comments below. See you soon!


	8. Chapter 8

Hope I didn't keep you guys waiting too long. Thank you for all of the kind words and a special thanks to suz24 for being a super-cool beta. On with the story!

* * *

She doesn't look surprised to see him. And the first words out are her mouth aren't _what are you doing here? _or _hands in the air where I can see them, Mr. Castle!_

Instead, she studies him hard and finally asks, "How did you find me?"

"I have my sources," he says enigmatically. At least he hopes it's enigmatic. He has a reputation to maintain. "I know all about you, Katherine Beckett. I've done my research. About your job, about your mother."

"You've been stalking me."

"I've been observing you," he disagrees. "You...fascinate me."

That's an understatement. It's more than simple intrigue. He's become infatuated. Quite taken, really. It's a dangerous position to be in and one he's not used to. It's not uncommon to find a passion in what he does, the drive to give justice to those who suffered the things he once did.

But it's more than that with this woman, Kate Beckett. It's not enough to simply kill for her. He wants her to understand what happened to her mother. He wants her to be a part of what he's doing. Certainly, she deserves that much.

"I fascinate you. Should I be flattered?" she snarks. It's cute. She's snarky.

"You're an extraordinary woman, Beckett. Do you know that?"

She doesn't know, he can tell as her eyes meet the floor. It's a shame. She's got the looks and the brains and the brawn. She's got the tragedy, the aura of mystery. And yet, she still prevails. She still fights. She should know how remarkable that makes her.

"Why did you kill Dick Coonan?" Kate asks, her hand clutching the chain around her neck. "Did it...did it have to do with my mom?"

"Brilliant Detective like you, I'm sure you've already figured it out."

She lets out a stuttering breath, grasping harder until her knuckles go white. "I want you to tell me everything you know."

"What?" he chuckles. "You're not going to arrest me?"

Her hand goes down to her hip in the blink of an eye, and suddenly she has her gun trained on him. The safety is off. "Everything you know."

"Okay, okay," he concedes too easily. He's excited to do this, overeager to give her the answers she's been looking for all of these years. "Let's sit down."

* * *

She's sitting at her kitchen table with a serial killer. He's sitting in one of her chairs with a glass of water, one of _her_ glasses, in front of him. He takes a sip and then looks up at her. "Sorry, how rude of me. Can I get you anything?"

"Castle, do you know no boundaries?"

He looks confused. "I broke into your apartment, didn't I?" And he has a point.

"Whatever. Let's just get down to business." Oh my God, she's doing business with a murderer. What the hell is she thinking?

"Dick Coonan," Richard Castle says, leaning down. He has a messenger bag with him and a file folder inside. Oh, several folders with neat labels and tabs. Wow, he's organized. A little OCD maybe?

As if reading her mind, he shrugs. "I take my work seriously. But you should really see my office. It's a mess."

"You have an office?"

"Well, my current office. I move around a lot. Can't be too careful."

She supposes he can't. "Moving on."

"Right. As I was saying, Dick Coonan. You arrested him several months ago for killing his brother, Jack. You saw that he was an experienced assassin. I'm sure you already know his method. One fatal blow and then an array to make it look random and botched."

"But how does that connect to my mother?"

"I'm getting there." Castle waves his hand to give himself a moment. He's dramatic. Must have gotten that from Martha Rodgers, she muses. Then, he's pulling out a picture, and her heart stops. It's her mother in the alley. He takes out another one, her autopsy photo.

"Where the _hell_ did you get that?"

"I have my sources," he repeats, each syllable drawn out like he thinks she's an idiot.

"Damn it, you know what I mean. Did you break into records? Did you bribe a cop? Do you work with people on the inside?" She knows her voice sounds a little shaky and a whole lot desperate. He doesn't respond, just stares her down, and she pounds her fist on the table. "Answer me, you son of a bitch."

"You have quite a dirty mouth on you. That's interesting."

"Don't you patronize me, and keep in mind," she pats her holster, "I have a gun too."

"I couldn't possibly forget." He smiles. He's amused with her. Is this all some sort of game? But he said he takes his work seriously, and she can see that it's true. He does his research. "Your mother was murdered by a contract killer. I could tell that much when I first found the pictures. Then, I saw a connection. I know a guy who knows a forensic pathologist. He took a look at the photos I found and confirmed my theory."

"Get on with it, Castle. Enough of the theatrics."

His face darkens. She hit a nerve. "Fine. There were at least three other murders connected to your mother. Diane Cavanaugh, Jennifer Stewart, and Scott Murray. And then, Jack Coonan, of course. But I didn't find that out until later." He drops each of their autopsy photos on the table as well. "The first two were lawyers who worked with your mother. Murray was the documents clerk at her firm."

"Is that what this is about? One of her cases?"

Castle gives an indefinite hum. "How much do you know about what your mother was working on?"

"I know there was one case, an open investigation." She swallows. "The file was lost, but it never really seemed important. What else is there to know?"

"I can't tell you with any certainty, but I believe that case is what got your mother and the others killed. There's a larger conspiracy behind this, and I'd like to help you figure it out."

She blinks at him incredulously. "Why?"

"For justice." His eyebrows narrow. "Why else?"

"But why me?" It's just her luck. She's been trying to put this case behind her since her father got sober. They made a pact. And now this deranged vigilante comes in to ruin it all. So why?

"I knew I liked you from the moment I saw you. You're different than other people. You understand loss, and you fight for others when no one else will. We're very much alike in that way. If anyone deserves justice, it's you, Kate Beckett." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I've killed countless men, horrible monsters, but it still doesn't satisfy. It's never been enough. I think this might be the chance I've been looking for to do something more. So, please, let me help you."

Kate's taken aback by his sincerity. She thinks he surprised himself too. So he wants to become more, huh? Should have thought about that before he started murdering people.

"No," she declares, even though some part deep inside her is screaming _yes yes yes_. It's the part she tried to bury. The obsession. "No, absolutely not. How could you even ask that? I am a _cop_. My job is to defend the law, and you are a _criminal_. Not only that, you're a murderer, a serial killer. You're sick, Castle. You're a danger to society and to yourself. So my answer is no. I don't want your help, and I don't need it."

That part's not true. She feels like she could use his inside knowledge, his connections. But now that he's got her started, she'll be able to continue. If she wants to continue…

"I can't accept that." He frowns. "Let me convince you. This will benefit both of us. This is what you've been looking for."

"No," she denies it, and he looks down in defeat. This is her chance.

She lunges over the table, slamming into him with enough force to tip the chair off of its legs. The files slide with her body and explode as they reach the ground, papers flying in all directions. Castle lets out a grunt when the back of his chair hits the wood floor, but he's quick to react, grabbing ahold of her upper arms and rolling to pin her down.

His strength combined with his size makes it difficult to fight back, but Kate thrashes her legs until her knee makes contact with his groin, and he lets out a pained yelp. She squirms out from under his body and grabs her weapon, but his fist comes out quickly, colliding with her wrist and sending the gun skidding across the floor.

She has two options. Fight or flight. Take a stand or make a run to the bathroom and call for backup. But then he could escape, and that would mean letting the Copycat Vigilante go to kill again. She can't let that happen.

So Kate stands and readies herself for the fight. "Stand down, Castle. You hear me? Don't move."

He doesn't heed her warning. Instead, he goes for her legs. The move is effective, and her shoulder hits the floor with an agonizing crack. Oh God, her arm might be knocked out of the socket. In spite of herself, she lets out a cry.

"Beckett, please. Don't make this difficult." He leans over her in concern, and her good arm lashes out, socking him in the nose. "Ouch!" Blood spurts out and drips down his chin. "Son of a-"

She strikes again, this one landing at his jaw. She keeps punching and kicking, and he takes every hit but still won't go down. If she wasn't working with one arm, she could do more serious damage.

He manages to grab her, being strangely careful not to push down on her shoulder. One hand comes up to cover her mouth and the other pinches her nose. He's trying to make her black out. _Not again!_ So she bites down on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Hard.

He hisses out a curse and moves away, and Kate tastes his blood on her lips, salty and metallic.

"I didn't want to hurt you," he says mournfully. Before grasping her bad arm and yanking it backwards, twisting.

"Ah!" she cries, tears flooding to her eyes. White hot pain flares through the joint of her shoulder. She starts to see spots, and oh God, she's going to pass out.

"I'm sorry," Castle tells her, even as he twists harder. "I'm so sorry."

She enters the darkness tortured and sobbing.

* * *

Thoughts? Comments? Leave them below, and thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

Hi, guys. Confession time. I kind of...made a terrible error in the last chapter. Since, I've gone back and fixed it. I don't think anyone noticed (?) and the change was very small. If you'd like to go back and reread, you can. But again, it was a small change, probably not noticeable. If you would like more elaboration on my writing failures, let me know in a review, or shoot me a PM, and we'll talk.

Self-deprecation aside, thank you all for the reviews, follows, and favorites. I couldn't do this without you. And **suz24** is still awesome.

* * *

The sound of a fist banging against her front door drags her through the fog of sleep and back to consciousness. Her first thought, still glazed with unawareness, is that it's the delivery guy, and _hold on hold on _she's coming.

Then she shifts in place, and her mind goes blank. Pain. It's agonizing and blocks out all path of thought for those first few seconds. Feels more like an eternity. Her inner monologue begins to trickle back in as a litany of curse words. _Shit, shit, damn, son of a bitch._

"Beckett, open up! Beckett, can you hear me?" Esposito's voice accompanies the knocking now, laced with worry, but she can't bring herself to respond. Couldn't get up to open the door if she wanted to.

So she watches as her door splinters and cracks open, mourns the loss of money it'll take to get it replaced. Oh well.

The boys spill in first, followed by backup and a team of paramedics. At the sight of her open eyes, Javier's shoulders slump in relief, and he holsters his weapon.

"Beckett, you all right? You with us?"

"Yeah, Espo," she croaks. "I'm okay. I'm with you."

They move aside to make room for the paramedics, dragging in a stretcher. Oh, she doesn't want-

"No," she manages, pushing herself into a slouch with her good arm. "No stretcher."

"Are you kidding me?" Esposito blurts out, letting his concern bleed into anger, and she rolls her eyes.

"Beckett," starts Ryan, ever the intermediary, "Please. You should go to the ambulance. You're bleeding."

Kate glances at the blood spattering her floor, and her hand drifts up to feel it caked on her chin from when she bit him. It's on her knuckles too.

"Not mine," she tells them. "It's not my blood, I'm fine. It's just my shoulder. Got knocked out of place."

Ignoring her refusal, the EMTs shift her gently onto the cot, lift, and then begin wheeling her to the elevator. The uniforms stay behind to inspect the scene, but Espo and Ryan follow her out, probably hoping to get a statement or at least a basic idea of what the hell just happened in there. It's embarrassing to be so prone in front of them, and she can walk, damn it. Is the stretcher really necessary?

"Hey, Beckett," the Latino breaks the silence once they approach the bus. "Dispatch said you weren't the one who called in the incident, said that they spoke to a man who wouldn't identify himself."

She can hear the unvoiced question in his statement. So Richard Castle called 911 after dislocating her shoulder and knocking her out. How considerate. "I know what you're thinking, and you're right. It was the Copycat Vigilante. He broke into my apartment."

After resetting her shoulder and putting her arm in a sling, the response team drives away. She rides to the station with the boys and gives her statement to incredulous stares.

"He offered his services?" Ryan asks in disbelief. "He wanted to work with you?"

"To solve my mother's case. Yeah, pretty much," she sighs. "For justice. To _do something more_."

"Sounds like he's almost as obsessed with you as you are with him," Esposito says with a smirk, only half joking.

"Shut up."

Ryan effectively keeps them on task, pen poised over his notepad. "And then you got into a struggle?"

"Well, I turned down his offer. But he was persistent, and while his guard was lowered, I saw my chance to apprehend him and took it."

"That was reckless," Javi admonishes, and she has to concede.

"Maybe. What's done is done. I tackled him. He pinned me down and managed to disarm me. I was able to regain my footing, but he dove for my legs, and that's when my shoulder was dislocated. I clocked him in the nose, probably broke it. After that, I tried to fend him off with my good arm, but he had the physical advantage. He put his hand over my mouth, and I bit him, so he twisted my shoulder. That's the last thing I remember."

The three sit in silence for a while until Ryan asks, "How _is_ the shoulder?"

"Sore," Beckett admits. "Nothing a little Advil won't help. I'll be on desk duty for a while if the Captain gets his way, so I need you guys to do the footwork on this. I know the Feds are swarming, but now, it's personal. Will you help me?"

"Of course," Espo answers, and Ryan gives a fierce nod. She feels a wave of affection wash over for them. Her boys. It's the only team she needs.

* * *

A week passes before they discover anything at all. Disappearing off into the night without a trace seems to be Richard Castle's thing. But the FBI gets a tip, and Ryan and Esposito follow them to a foreclosure in the Bronx while Beckett grumbles over paperwork and sneaks glares at Montgomery through the office blinds.

The team busts in to find the place empty aside from a table and chair, copies of old case files littering the area, but also new material. Photos. Of Beckett outside of the precinct and even a few in her home. Esposito curses when he sees them, and Ryan feels his stomach roll. But still, no Copycat Vigilante. Unbelievable.

There's an informant on the inside, has to be. How else would he always be one step ahead of them?

Another three weeks, and she's finally out of the sling. The blessed relief after a month of riding her desk is immeasurable, but it comes all too late. The FBI believes Richard Castle to have fled the state and are supposedly pursuing leads through Pennsylvania, way out of her jurisdiction.

And then, out of the blue, she gets a phonecall while doing some PT exercises.

"Detective Beckett?"

"Yeah."

"This is John Raglan," the voice says, and Kate sucks in a breath. "I was the lead investigator on your mother's homicide twelve years ago." But he doesn't have to elaborate. She knows.

"I remember you, Detective Raglan."

They arrange a meeting at a coffee shop to discuss her mother's case. "Just you, no cops," John Raglan warns.

Against her better judgment, Beckett goes alone, doesn't tell the boys or ring the Captain. She recognizes him right away sitting in a booth with a cup of coffee and slides down into the bench across from him.

There are no friendly greetings, no pleasantries or small talk.

"Tell me what I don't know about my mom's murder."

He makes an inconsequential comment on the coffee, a nostalgic remark. She realizes what this is, why this meeting was called before he even starts explaining his condition. Lymphoma. The confession of a dying man.

"I hid a lot of sins behind my badge, and now I gotta carry them. But your mother's case, that one weighs a ton."

"Why?" she spits, twelve years doing nothing to soothe the bitterness. "Because you wrote it off as random gang violence when you knew it wasn't?"

"I did what I was told," he says. "And I kept quiet because I was afraid. I-I'm not afraid anymore." The last part seems to be more a reassurance to himself than to her.

"You don't look it," she observes, and Raglan runs a hand over his balding head.

"That's because I got a visit last night. From your pit bull." Off her confusion, he explains, "Your attack dog, Richard Castle. The Copycat Vigilante."

God damn it, wasn't he supposed to running off to the boonies of West Virginia by now? "He came to your house?"

"And threatened me," Raglan grunts. "And here, I'd always heard you were a straight shooter."

"Listen, I have no control over what Richard Castle does or says. Anything you might have heard, anything he might have told you about us working together? It's a lie. He's fixated himself on me, on this case, but I have no part in it. Understood?"

"He said as much, but you certainly have him wrapped around your finger." Well, it's not like she asked for this, but the retired cop moves on. "There was a hostage standoff in your precinct. You arrested a hitman named Dick Coonan. A month ago, Richard Castle murdered him outside his cell. It was a big deal in the papers. People noticed."

"Who hired Coonan to kill my mom?" she asks, but he shakes his head.

"You need some context here." And then the words start spilling out of his mouth. Things like _nineteen years ago_ and _bad mistake_. It's stuff she hasn't heard before now. What does her mother's murder have to do with something that happened seven years before? "That started the dominoes falling, and one of them was your mom."

Then, the coffee mug in front of his mouth explodes in a rain of white ceramic, and her arms come up instinctively to shield her face.

"Everybody on the ground now!" shouts Beckett, pulling out her gun. "Back away from the window, away from the window!"

She grabs her radio as the man at her side gurgles blood, but she can't watch the window, make the call, and apply pressure to the wound at the same time. He stops moving then, and it's too late.

John Raglan is dead.

* * *

Sorry for the wait. Hope it was still enjoyable. Send me your comments or questions below.


	10. Chapter 10

Hey, guys. Sorry for the slight delay. Thank you for all of the reviews this week. Sorry that I wasn't able to send out personal responses before posting another chapter. Real life responsibilities are catching up with me, but I'll try my best to manage my time a little better. As always, **suz24 **is made out of cool. On with the story!

* * *

Beckett watches as they wheel John Raglan's body out on a stretcher, bathed in red and blue light, while Montgomery reams her out. Ryan and Esposito try to cover for her, but the Captain knows better. He knows how she gets about her mother's case, like a little girl running around with scissors.

"Go where the evidence leads, not the other way around," he warns. "Do you read me?"

"Yes, Sir," she answers. It'll be hard, but she can be objective about this. She _will_ be objective about this. "Loud and clear."

Esposito follows the bullet's trajectory through a window on the fourth floor of the building across the street while Ryan checks in with Raglan's neighbors, and Beckett drives to the precinct to change, hardly able to concentrate on the road as her mind flies in a million directions.

In the washroom, she strips out of the cream sweater, streaked with blood, and drops it into the sink. After scrubbing for ten minutes, the rusty stain remains, and she heaves it into the wastebin with a heavy plop.

Dick Coonan is dead. John Raglan is dead, and somehow, it all connects to her mother's murder. She can't help but feel responsible. Would Raglan have even come to her if it wasn't for Richard Castle's threats? He had terminal cancer, but he didn't need to die today. He could have spent the next few months with loved ones, family, friends. Instead, he's lying on a slab in the morgue while she stands here, alive and trying to salvage the blouse covered in _his_ blood. It makes her feel sick.

She leans over the sink, hands gripping either side of the basin, and breathes in through her nose. Having a breakdown isn't going to help anyone. She needs to pull herself together and find out who was behind the hit, and that will bring her closer to uncovering what really happened to her mom twelve years ago.

At least this time, the FBI won't be interfering.

She changes into her spare shirt, splashes some water on her face, and steps out into the bullpen ready to get to work.

Esposito comes in with news. No prints or shell casings or witnesses found at the scene, but the building was secured, so the sniper had to have a keycard to get in. It's not much, but it's a start.

Ryan follows with his findings. Raglan had no next of kin, but he did have a friend who came to visit upon occasion, another retired cop named Gary McCallister.

Two hours later, Beckett's sitting across from McCallister in the interview room. She offers him her condolences as he pours liquor into his mug of coffee and takes a long sip.

"Still tastes like piss," he grunts, voice like sandpaper from age and cigarette smoke. "I sacrificed my best years and worst marriages to this damn city. You'd think that would be enough, but it never is. Had to gobble up my best friend too."

She tries to coax information out of him, but the ex-cop either doesn't know what she's talking about or is playing dumb. In her gut, she feels it's the latter.

"I don't get it. Raglan was retired by the time you came on the job. What did he want with you?"

"Raglan was helping me with a...cold case that I was working on. And I believe he was killed to keep him quiet." She studies McCallister. He's not offering up anything. "Look, Raglan seemed to think that the case had to do with something he did nineteen years ago. What was he into back then?"

He takes offense at that and lashes out, seems to think she's trying to drag his partner's name through the mud. But he gives her a name.

"Vulcan Simmons? He runs half the drug trade in New York."

McCallister explains that his old buddy was a gambler, strapped for cash. According to rumor, he got involved running drugs for Simmons from his patrol car. It's a good theory but doesn't seem to connect to her mother at all. Still, she thanks Gary McCallister for coming in to which he responds with another grunt.

Assault, attempted murder, extortion, possession with intent, witness intimidation. Vulcan Simmons certainly has quite a rap sheet, but he hasn't been booked in years. That means he's dangerous and smart, the worst kind of criminal.

"Guess he's come a long way since Washington Heights," Ryan remarks, and her head shoots up from the file.

"Wait, what? You said Washington Heights?"

Sometimes she forgets that the younger cop has a history in narcotics. "Yeah. Back in the day, Simmons used to run the drug trade in Washington Heights. Why?"

Beckett mentally files through the list of names Richard Castle gave her when he broke into her home. It all pieces together. This could be the connection. "My mom and a group of her colleagues put together a campaign called Take Back the Neighborhood. They were trying to get drug dealers off the streets in Washington Heights."

So Vulcan Simmons hires Dick Coonan to get rid of her mother and the others, and he pays off Raglan to cover it up. Then, when Raglan tries to tell her the truth, he's silenced.

"We'll have him in the box before lunch," declares Esposito.

Good, good. This is it. But her stomach rolls, and she's torn between anticipation and dread for what's to come.

* * *

Simmons comes in well-dressed and relaxed. He makes a crack about the room, something about the paint being different, and then he smiles. She feels like she's staring at the Devil incarnate, and it shoots ice through her veins.

"You'd have been about sixteen, wrestling some pimply kid in the back of his daddy's wagon, wondering if you were going to give it to him or not." Suddenly, she regrets convincing Espo and Ryan to let her lead the interrogation on her own.

So she does the only thing she can do. She ignores him. "What was your association with Detective John Raglan?"

The man pretends to think on it for a while. "Thirsty cop, right? Couldn't pick a winner to save his life." It matches up with what McCallister told her. "Well, Detective, our association as you put it exceeded the statute of limitations many moons ago."

"There's no statute of limitations on murder, Mr. Simmons."

He starts mocking her, using his knowledge about interrogation techniques to get a rise out of her. But she won't let him.

"Look at me," she demands. "Twelve years ago, Johanna Beckett led a big Take Back the Neighborhood campaign in Washington Heights. Johanna Beckett was murdered along with two of her colleagues and the desk clerk. They were professional hits carried out on your orders, and you had your pet homicide detective John Raglan bury them." She takes the photograph of her mother and slides it across the table. "Look at her face. Tell me you don't remember her."

His tongue comes out to wet his lips, and he leans forward as he speaks. "You know, Detective Beckett, I think I do remember her. Bled out in an alley like the trash she was."

She feels her fingers twitch. If he doesn't quit it, she's going to do something she regrets. "Mr. Simmons, you better watch it."

But he continues, "Rich bitch from uptown on safari in the Heights. Somebody should have warned her not to feed or tease the animals. If they had, she might not have gotten eaten." He stands and buttons his jacket. "From what I hear, though, she was pretty tasty."

Blinded by rage, she flies from her seat and grasps Vulcan Simmons' lapels, shoving him up against the one-way glass. It splinters, fractures running in all directions under his weight. He chuckles, and she lets out a growl so primal that it would scare her if she wasn't so furious. In all the chaos, Richard Castle's words filter back to her. _Look him in the eye_. _Raise the knife_. _Watch as he struggles_. It's evil and sick, but she _wants _it. She wants to see Vulcan Simmons _suffer_.

"Remember your old life, Vulcan. _Savor_ it. Because I am going to take it all away."

Even as Esposito and Ryan barge into the room, tearing her away and yelling for her to stand down, the drug dealer laughs. It rings through the doorway, but Beckett keeps walking, doesn't stop until she's back in the washroom.

She leans against the door and pants. As the adrenaline wears off, she feels a stinging pain and looks down at her hands. Her fingertips are sliced. One shard of glass sticks out of her knuckle, and she hisses. There's a first aid kit in here somewhere. She opens a drawer under one of the sinks and fishes out the tweezers, cleaning them with antiseptic. Damn it, it burns.

The cuts aren't deep, and the fragment is large enough to dig out without much effort. At this point, fear over the consequences of her actions is outweighing the pain. Shoot, shoot. What was she thinking? What has she done?

Captain Montgomery has to let Simmons go because of her. He kicks her off the case and sends her home even though she begs.

Grabbing her jacket, Beckett all but runs out of the bullpen, making every concentrated effort not to cry in front of her fellow detectives. _Shit_.

She found the man who ordered her mother's murder. She found him and let him get away, and now she's off the case. But she doesn't need the Captain or the Twelfth Precinct to take Vulcan Simmons down. They won't help her, fine.

She's knows someone who will.

When Kate gets back to her apartment, the door is open. Typical. Not even her newly installed deadbolt could deter him. Inside sits Richard Castle at the dining table with a bottle of wine and a box of pizza.

"Honey, you're home. Hope you don't mind that I ordered dinner." She doesn't even bother to roll her eyes.

"I've reconsidered your offer, and you were right. I need your help."

* * *

Thank you for continuing to read this story. Your reviews and follows and general response has been great motivation. Any questions or comments? Leave them below, and I'll see you guys next Thursday!


End file.
